


romantic gestures

by Anonymous



Category: Marvel 616
Genre: Amputation, Angst, Captivity, Hydra Steve Rogers, M/M, Manhandling, Not A Fix-It, Permanent Injury, Suicidal Thoughts, fuckpotato
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-13
Updated: 2019-06-13
Packaged: 2020-05-07 10:08:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19207201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: "Stop squirming."for the kinkmeme prompt: “Hydracap has Tony's arms and legs amputated so he can't get away and fucks him regularly, using his strength to move him how he likes.”





	romantic gestures

**Author's Note:**

> originally here at the [kinkmeme](https://cap-ironman.dreamwidth.org/1997467.html?thread=14730907#cmt14730907) but now expanded a little.

He hasn't given up yet. Even like this, fucked out and exhausted, mouth open and drooling onto the pillows and trying his goddamn best not to suffocate. Not that Steve would care or even take notice, at least not until the body had cooled.

A warm hand lands on his back. If he could, he'd flinch away from it, or lean into it, or - something. His thoughts are all scrambled, something ineffable in his mind cut away, amputated and healed over he can't even find where the first slice of the knife landed, caught between the past he doesn't dare confront and the present he can't face.

Another hand. He's lifted up, fingers tight on his hips, enough to bruise in sickly shades of purple and yellow. Kisses press to his spine, up the back of his neck, a whisper of touch that has him shivering.

"Stop squirming."

Tony stills, letting himself be manhandled onto Steve's cock, the squelch and sound of it echoing in his mind.

He thinks he's done this a hundred times before (the days blur together. sometimes it feels like he's never been anything but this), but it still burns as if it’s the first. Steve likes to keep him tight, likes to have him feel every ridge, nook, and cranny, barely even perfunctory prep before pushing in with a low groan of delight.

This is what he’s been reduced to. Tony Stark, Iron Man, Avenger.

Steve finishes quickly – one thrust, two, three, a few more, and Tony is filled with a sudden warmth that spills out the sides of Steve’s cock. It drips onto the sheets when he pulls out, letting Tony drop back to the bed.

The worst part comes next. Tony closes his eyes.

Steve turns Tony over, moves him away from the wet spots. Steps away. Tony hears the sound of water running, and a moment later a cool washcloth presses to his side. It moves over him, wiping him clean of sweat and come. What Tony would do for a shower right now.

Steve fetches a fresh washcloth as he starts dabbing at Tony’s hole. It’s slow, sweet, sensual even. When he’s done, he kisses it, some terrible mockery of affection.

He lifts Tony out of the bed and onto the nearby loveseat, changes the sheets, and places him back on the bed. He tucks Tony in, makes sure he’s warm and comfortable.

“Night, Tony,” he says before he leaves. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

-

There are - attendants, or something. People there to make sure that he eats, he shits, that he doesn't find some way to kill himself. He's tried.

They don't talk to him, even in the early days when he'd hoped that they would try to help him. Once, he'd caught one of them with a look of pity in his eye, and Tony had begged, had begged and pleaded for any semblance of mercy. That one was gone the next day.

When Steve's not here, there's always one in the room. The current one is tall, thick blonde hair wild around her face. She looks like someone Tony knew, once upon a time. At nine in the morning precisely, she straightens him up, spoon feeds him the dry paste that passes as nutrients. Four hours later, another small meal. She never looks him in the eye.

Sometimes she reads to him, scientific articles or journals that Tony knows Steve picked out for him. Some cruel semblance of normalcy.

Tony catches a few words here and there, but it mostly fades into white noise. Most of his energy is focused on breathing and staying alive. Not that he’s succeeding much at that. Some days he can barely breathe at all.

-

At night, there's Steve. He always smells of blood.

-

Time passes. Tony thinks there must be a world out there still, turning on without him, but he doesn't know it. Doesn't know if he ever knew it, if he always was this broken, horrid thing, flayed open and not even human.

-

"Tony," a furtive voice says. "Oh, Tony. What did he do to you?"

Tony recognizes it, and he searches blurrily through his memory until he finds it. Flashes of red, of yellow, of black. A shock of blond hair so like Steve's he -

"Carol," he says, voice rusty. He doesn't know why she's here. He thought that she had-

He's lifted, then, arms around him so warm and so gently he flinched, squeezes his eyes shut.

Carol calls something out, but he doesn't catch it, senses suddenly screaming, overwhelmed.

Someone starts stroking his hair, and he waits for the inevitable tug, almost strong enough to pull his hair from its roots, but it never comes.

“Let's get him out of here.” It could be Carol, could be someone else. It doesn't matter anymore. He's nothing but a body, made for anyone’s whims to use.

Blearily, through the aching buzz in his head, he resents their arrival. He was so close. Another few days, another few skipped meals and refused water, and he would have made it.

He hates them, and he hates himself.

He can't bring himself to hate Steve.

-

They tell him it wasn't Steve. Well, they tell him in between avoiding looking at him and changing his IV and holding glasses of water with straws in them up to his lips before he passes out again.

Tony stays mute, save for occasional whispered demands to leave him alone, to turn the lights off, to give him more morphine. At the rate he's going, he's going to become an addict. Old news.

“There are solutions,” Carol says. She sounds guilty, and Tony doesn't know why. “Thor has offered to help. Wakanda.”

“Leave me alone,” Tony says, and closes his eyes.

-

He makes one request, and everyone objects before he insists, before he uses the only leverage he has - his barely a body, his worthless hunk of flesh and blood and skin.

“I need to,” he says. He can’t recognize his own voice these days. “Take me.”

They wheel him down, down, down.

And he's alone. Alone, except. Except.

“Morning,” Tony says, and the imposter turns to look at him, frowns, so concerned it hurts.

“Oh, _Tony_ ,” he says, voice rising and falling perfectly, the way Tony remembers it should. “What did he do to you?”

Tony doesn't flinch, but he comes close enough. “You're not him,” he says. It sounds like a lie, even to himself. His arms and legs ache, even if they're gone. Phantom pain, ghosts chasing him long after they're dead. Story of his life.

The imposter has his elbows on his knees, leaning forward, eyes pleading, a perfect simulacrum. “Tony, please.” When Tony doesn't reply, he adds, “I love you.” It’s something like a plea.

Tony says nothing. He can't do anything but breathe.

 

**Author's Note:**

> 🙃


End file.
